


The Art Of Living

by Jenwryn



Series: The Art Of Falling [2]
Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Episode: s03e02 Precipice, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-13
Updated: 2008-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patterns within patterns. True light from true light.</p><p>Tag to Episode 03.02 (Precipice).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art Of Living

**Author's Note:**

> Written about fifteen minutes after watching Episode 03.02 (Precipice).
> 
> This time from Kara's PoV.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

_Light breaks where no sun shines;  
Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart  
Push in their tides.  
_   
_~ Dylan Thomas, ‘Light breaks where no sun shines’, 1934._

*

A small girl. Whoever knew that such a small girl could make such a difference? She’s such a tiny thing, nothing more than a scrap of skin, and bones, and smiles, but there’s something about her presence that seems to invade, pervade, perfume the entire home. Home? A house, a house, that’s all it is, but somehow, someway, suddenly with her presence it has become a home. Kacey. The name keeps wanting to trip from Kara’s lips and the ease of it is a worry. All this time, all this time fighting him: four months the warrior, four months the brave, the strong, the half-broken but never quite defeated. She’s been wounded, she’s been bent, but broken, no, not snapped beneath his will. She’s refused to see the patterns within the patterns, she’s refused to sink into his rivers and streams but now – now – oh Lords of Kobol now how has it all fallen apart with just the presence of one small scrap of smiles?

Hours she fought against it, but what are hours in the scheme of things? How many days, how many months did she imagine it would take to bend her, break her, but at that cry, at that cry… She never wanted to have children. Never. She’d told that to the Simon model, and she’d meant it. _I don’t want to have a child_. His psychobabble crap made her sick but there was perhaps a truth to it. She’s learnt that, now, learnt that after all this time with Leoben, learnt that Admiral Adama was right – it’s not that they tell lies, but that they tell the truth, and she knows already that the truth is much more dangerous. She never wanted a child, but at the sound of that cry every ounce of her body had screamed out, she’d known, like a premonition, that something was wrong, known, like a mother… known, like a mother, the fear plunging into her like a knife at the sight of the blood spilt. _Kacey, ohmygods, Kacey…_

She’d sat, at the hospital bed, and not known what to think anymore. Lost, lost in feelings of guilt, lost in the understandings of accidents, lost in memories of fingers broken. He knew her, and she loathed him for it, he knew her, and she’d started to get derailed in the knowledge. Her hand on his at their daughters’ bedside. Oh gods, their daughters’, a thought she can’t allow herself to even think, a thought, that this scrap of smiles is theirs, a combination, him and her, two souls floating in the stream, oh gods no, and that she will see patterns within patterns. Patterns within patterns. It’s a kind of poison that drips from within, a lostness, a togetherness, a random confusion of bubbles of thoughts that make no sense even to her brain as it thinks them. Her hand on his at the hospital, so natural, the most natural thing in the universe, two parents concerned for their daughter; the most unnatural thing in the world. How can life make so much sense and be so indelibly frakked up?

How can she loathe and love so much?

Is that what love is? The admittance of the fear and caring despite it? Is that what love is? She knows love, she has felt it. Love of Zak, that caused so much pain. Love of Sam. Love of crewmates. Love of her mother. Is this love, then? What love is this? Is this the love of a mother for her child, unconditional, regardless of the abomination it is, is this love? And her own mother? Did she love and loathe too? Do all mothers? Is that part of the great maternal mystery, the recognition, the concealment, of the fact that mothers fear and hate and loathe, and all the while they love even as they destroy? Is that the great maternal labyrinth which womankind is doomed to tread? A path held silent even by those penitents who walk it?

Patterns within patterns. Streams within the universe. The mystery of wombs and love.

It’s just a little girl. A little thing of bright eyes and grinning curls. Whoever knew that it could do some much, a little thing like that. Kara never knew. Perhaps he did, she thinks, Leoben. He knows about the wonder of life, perhaps he knew. He must have. He created her, didn’t he? And love, where does love play in the game? Because Sharon, Sharon, Cylon-Sharon, she said that the Cylons couldn’t reproduce, she said that, she said they had to love. Was it a lie? A legend? Have they overcome the problem? Or does he love her? But what good is one sided love? Does it mean she loves him too?

Her hand on his in the hospital. Her knife buried in his throat. Images conflict, constrict, contrast as they flicker through her mind. His prophecy, his dream of her holding him in her arms and saying she loves him. Could she? Would she? Should she?

Impossible.

But who knew, who knew what difference such a little scrap of humanity could make.

Patterns within patterns. True light from true light. A corner of smiles in a home.

Learning how to live.

Learning how to be needed.

Learning.


End file.
